Thursday, January 16, 2014

They huddle,
breath
mingling,
gathering
by twos to the heat, voices loud
to
match the crackling wood. They see
each
other and curl cold hands together and
are
blind to the stars
and me,
and you.

You
strike
a match
behind your empty hand
and
your fingers are a red glow. Shadow
flickers
over your face.
You
puff smoke and steamed breath, toss
the dark-burned
stick, see
my
empty hand matching and you want
to fill
mine with yours.

I turn
away,
listening
to the
rustling grass,
and stretch
my fingers into the icy air, refusing
to curl
or cling to yours.
Already
in love
with
the sky—not the stars
but the
space between.